


Rewritten Memories

by Jade56



Series: Mycroft's Secrets and Sherlock's Memories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Mycroft, Canon Compliant, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Post series 4, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Sibling Incest, mylock, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9474683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: Sherlock now knows that he rewrote his memories of Redbeard to deal with the trauma of what happened. But those were not the only memories he had tried to forget. He had also rewritten his memories of how Mycroft comforted him following the incident, because it had been too difficult to cope with his confusing, inappropriate infatuation with his brilliant, caring big brother.Now, however, Sherlock’s memories, and the feelings he had tried to bury, have been completely restored.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be spoilers here for Series 4, particularly TFP.
> 
> While there is a prequel, this work was written first and can be read alone.

Sitting with his knees bent, his arms around his legs, Sherlock stared ahead at the projected video, which was playing silently. It was the familiar footage of him and his brother as children, with their parents. In the recording, he saw himself as a tiny, energetic child. He also saw Mycroft, who was more sedate by comparison, though still apparently happy. Mycroft was chubby, as he had been as a child; nonetheless, he appeared smaller than the tall giant of Sherlock’s memories.

Having kicked off his shoes at the door, and tossed his coat and jacket onto a sofa downstairs, Sherlock might have seemed to an outsider like he wasn’t an intruder. However, the truth was he had broken into Mycroft’s house, once again. He was using his brother’s projector room, staring at the footage that he himself had used in a dramatic attempt to extract information from Mycroft.

Of course, now Sherlock knew all that there was to know. He had a sister he had forgotten about, a highly intelligent but dangerous individual who was kept under guard. She had been responsible for the death of Sherlock’s childhood friend. To cope with the trauma, the despair stemming from the twofold pain of betrayal by a trusted sister and the loss of a cherished companion, Sherlock had altered his memories.

The illusions he had crafted for himself were gone now. Redbeard the dog had vanished, and in his place, there was Sherlock’s friend, grinning widely as he drew his eyepatch around his head.

Sherlock remembered the fear he felt when Victor had been missing for too long, the helplessness when he couldn’t understand his sister’s riddles, and the violent churning in his stomach when Eurus had spoken of "Drowned Redbeard".

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock said to himself, “That’s over now.”

Nobody said that learning to live with these memories would be easy. Hadn’t that been the reason he had repressed them in the first place?

But Sherlock was done living with illusions. He took one more long inhale, steadying himself.

He closed his eyes, and reminded himself that Eurus had only wanted to be loved. That did not excuse what she had done, but Sherlock had forgiven her. She needed help as badly as anyone.

Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock remembered the good times he had with Victor, his fellow pirate. Despite the hardships that Sherlock had remembered, there had also been many good memories that had been returned to him. They helped him make sense of it all, to accept what had happened.

Victor deserved to be remembered for the good times the two of them shared, didn’t he?

Opening his eyes again, Sherlock actually smiled—until, however, he refocused on the old footage, and saw the other player, the eldest child in his childhood drama.

Mycroft was eating cake in the footage, providing an amusing contrast to the more active Sherlock, who was playing with a beach ball.

Eurus wasn’t in the footage, nor was Victor. There was nothing here that could have reminded him of that particular anguish. Nor could Sherlock have known, from this innocent footage of two young brothers simply enjoying time with their parents on the beach, of the other pain that had gnawed at the younger of those two siblings.

There had indeed been another pain, a different kind of anguish that Sherlock had buried in himself. It had been an ache that had been appalling and unspeakable, so terrible that even the young Sherlock knew that it had to be forgotten.

This ache was no longer forgotten. When the deception of Redbeard that he had built for himself had been dispelled in his head, other lies that Sherlock had told himself for so many years had come tumbling down as well, like a miserable set of dominos that had crashed loudly in his mind.

The problem involved Mycroft, and had to do with what happened during that holiday—not the incident with Redbeard itself, but what occurred after that.

Sherlock shook his head when he considered this. No, the time for lies was past. Sherlock was grown, and he had the support of friends and family, new and old; even if he couldn’t tell them everything, he was at least finally able to be honest to himself. The honest truth was this: it had started even before Sherlock met Victor.

There had always been strong feelings in the young Sherlock for his clever, dazzling big brother. Mycroft was seven years older than Sherlock, and naturally became a sort of role model. It had seemed to Sherlock then that Mycroft had seen everything and knew everything. Sherlock looked up to him, and always wanted to learn from him.

Aside from admiring his brother’s intelligence, Sherlock had also adored Mycroft for his considerate temperament. Mycroft was calm and sensible, a clear voice to listen to when Sherlock asked a question, a steady hand to hold when Sherlock was nervous.

Some of the memories that stunned Sherlock the most were of his feelings when he embraced his brother. Oh, he hadn’t actually thought less of his brother for his rotund shape. He had thought of Mycroft as his incredible giant, and his body size had seemed fitting. In any case, he liked that his brother was soft, like an enormous pillow. Sherlock had taken any opportunity he could to touch Mycroft or rest his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

To the child Sherlock, Mycroft had seemed so clever, calm, and—Sherlock cracked a smile once more—cuddly! Sherlock had sometimes doubted if the younger brother measured up. There were times he had worried that he was only important to Mycroft by way of their blood relation, particularly as he knew how Mycroft valued family in general. However, when Mycroft gave him his undivided attention, and smiled at one of Sherlock’s deductions or tolerantly played the pirate’s captive, Sherlock knew that Mycroft cherished him for the adventurous, inquisitive child that he was, and his whole body warmed with love for his brother.

This was, in short, how the trouble had started, before the Redbeard incident.

Sherlock’s feelings got out of hand after that fateful incident occurred. Victor had disappeared, and there was no way to find him. In a terrible maelstrom of confusion and grief, Sherlock had cried for his lost friend. Mycroft had sat with him, and talked to him. Sherlock had been so overwrought that he could hardly speak, but that was all right. Mycroft, composed and reassuring, discussed all sorts of simple and mundane things, to help Sherlock get his mind off of the tragedy.

He had been sure that their sister had been responsible, and she had implied it herself, but it had not been proven, and it wasn’t until the fire that she was taken away. Even then, when she was far away, Sherlock had trouble coping with his loss of two people: his best friend, as well as the sister he had thought he could trust, the person who had taught him violin, whom he had secretly hoped would turn out to be innocent. One had vanished, the other had never really been there, and Sherlock felt alone and afraid.

Mycroft was still there. He was always there. When Sherlock sobbed at night, haunted by memories he did not want to have, Mycroft heard him, his room being next to Sherlock’s. Sometimes, Mycroft serendipitously came in just before Sherlock started to cry, as if Mycroft just knew when Sherlock needed him. As a child, Sherlock, even at his quickest, had never been able to keep anything from his big brother.

Sometimes, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to sleep. He would be helped onto his bed by his protective giant, and when Sherlock begged for Mycroft to stay, his brother did so. There was often a moment of uncertainty, as there was an element of awkwardness when it came to the two brothers who were so far apart in age sharing a bed, but soon enough Mycroft was lying with him. He held Sherlock, and told him everything would be all right in the end.

When he was little, Sherlock had been much smaller than his big brother. Mycroft had been tall and big, and so very soft. His large arms made a warm, comforting cocoon around Sherlock. Nestled in that comfortable embrace, Sherlock had concentrated on Mycroft’s heartbeat, and the calming, steady rhythm had helped him find some control over his feelings.

There were times when he had woken in the middle of the night, troubled by nightmares, screaming with despair, and Mycroft would hold him tightly, guarding him and shushing him softly. For all that Sherlock endured, he saw now that Mycroft must have had a difficult time as well, yet he managed to be there for Sherlock, even as he had to watch his kid brother endure what would have been traumatic for an adult.

“No wonder you helped me forget,” Sherlock said quietly, leaning his chin onto his knees, facing the footage of him and Mycroft on the beach.

He understood why Mycroft had kept all of this secret, had allowed Sherlock to rewrite his own memories. What else could an older brother have done, after watching his little sibling suffer?

The story that Sherlock had long told himself of the unkind, aloof older brother was almost laughable, starkly contrasting with the caring guardian he remembered now. He’d managed to rewrite his memories to a Mycroft who belittled him, who didn’t care about him. Resentment was safer than the true feelings that had reached their zenith when Mycroft had held him in that bed and comforted Sherlock through his pain.

Come what may, he remembered all those feelings now, and he could never forget them again.

They would be shocking to most people, the kind of sentiments that one was not supposed to feel for a sibling. Even in his youth, Sherlock had known that. A boy shouldn’t have a crush on his brother.

Mycroft was actually closed-minded and arrogant and plain, not worthy of inappropriate interest—that was what Sherlock told himself, over and over again, to rid himself of his unacceptable feelings for his brother. He became more distant from Mycroft, until at last Sherlock had been completely alone.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

A good man, one better than many Sherlock had known, had once disagreed with that belief, and Sherlock, watching the silent motions of a little curly-haired child laughing as he ran toward an encouraging older child, wondered why he had ever thought it was true.

Besides, even if he was safer alone, was it worth it?

Well, he wouldn’t be reliving the pain he was living now…

“Would I have been better off,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, “if I’d never remembered any of it?”

In the footage, the young Sherlock jumped on Mycroft, giving him a big hug. Mycroft, who had been reading a book, nevertheless looked enormously happy to be interrupted in such a way.

That brought a grin to Sherlock’s face.

“No, I prefer it this way.”

True, he now knew of the heartache his child self had endured. However, like the fond memories of playing with Victor, there was something to be gained, too. He knew that his brother had cared for him. That was worth something.

And now, Sherlock could make things right again.

At that moment, Sherlock heard footsteps from the hallway, approaching this room. He was drawn away from his introspection, though he didn’t look away from the projector. He didn’t have to, since the rhythm of the footsteps was as familiar to him as his own gait.

The door opened, letting some light from the hallway into the room, though not much, as few lights were on and the hour was late. Shortly, the familiar steps entered.

“There was a breach in my security, or so I was informed,” uttered a voice that sounded more mellifluous, more elegant than it had in years. Had it always sounded like that?

Suddenly, Sherlock’s heart started beating faster. He felt warm and giddy. It was strangely difficult to speak, torn as he was with nervousness and excitement. Despite these feelings, or maybe because of them, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything serious. “You should have that looked into,” Sherlock remarked instead, keeping his voice stable with effort.

Mycroft sighed. “There _is_ a doorbell, in case you fancy trying it sometime. Or, if you’re feeling particularly daring, you could, conceivably, use your key.”

“I’m providing a valuable service by breaking in.” Though he wanted to say more, Sherlock found this kind of familiar banter between them to be comforting. It was known territory, and in a way, he supposed at that moment, it was a reminder that his brother would always be there, no matter how Sherlock behaved. “I’m testing your security so you know where your vulnerabilities are. You ought to be grateful. In fact, you should be paying me.”

“After that absurdity you orchestrated here at my expense, with a clown no less, you really are in no position to make such a claim.”

“I was justified. You were keeping secrets from me, Mycroft.”

“I was also justified. I kept secrets to protect you. You must know that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock couldn’t disagree.

Unfolding himself and lowering his feet to the floor, Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. The room was dark, but there was enough light from the projector for Sherlock to see that his brother, looking elegant in a suit as usual, was watching the footage, as Sherlock had been doing before.

The footage showed their child selves sitting with their parents, all of them smiling and waving at the camera. Sherlock was struck by how simple and innocent the two brothers looked.

“Reminiscing, Sherlock? I should think you’d had enough of that for a little while.”

“Not quite.” Though Sherlock left his legs unfolded, he did cross his arms again. He knew he was nervously tapping his thumb against his arm, but he couldn’t help fidgeting.

There was a hesitation from Mycroft before he posed his next question. “It is understandable, of course, if you are still recovering from the ordeals you have been through.” It wasn’t explicitly a question, but Sherlock could hear the implied concern that Mycroft had for his little brother.

How could Sherlock have ever forgotten how sweet and caring he brother was? It had been dreadfully obvious all along.

“There are still some memories to sort through,” Sherlock conceded.

“Anything you’d care to discuss?” Mycroft asked, with a light tone that did not completely hide the depth of his concern.

Sherlock held his arms tightly to his chest. When Mycroft was so close, and so concerned for him, the flutters in Sherlock’s stomach were almost unbearable. “It wasn’t just Victor or Eurus that I had forgotten. I remember other things.”

“Oh?” Mycroft said, too quickly. He must have noticed the discomfort given away by Sherlock’s body language.

Wishing that Mycroft could not be so perceptive for once, Sherlock did his best to keep his body still. “In fact,” he said, a touch more evenly than before, “I remember everything.”

“I wasn’t aware that you had suppressed anything else.”

Sherlock stared hard at to the looping footage, not willing to look elsewhere. He had thought it would be a simple matter to come here and talk to Mycroft. Now he wasn’t sure what he had hoped to accomplish. How could he ever tell Mycroft?

For just an instant, he actually watched the video again, examining the recording of an emotional little boy and his perceptive older brother.

“I’m not sure I believe that,” Sherlock said, an idea suddenly occurring to him. Narrowing his eyes at the screen, he lowered his voice. “I think you’re lying to me again.”

It wasn’t so hard to believe that the perceptive older brother, who had kept other secrets so well, had known the entire truth all along.

Mycroft didn’t say anything.

There was a long silence between them. The footage continued to play without a sound.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft murmured at last, “it is reasonable if you are still bothered by everything that has occurred. It is no small thing to uncover long-buried memories, especially distressing ones. You might be experiencing some confusion as you sort through your past.”

“Now I am certain that you are hiding something.”

“Come, Sherlock. It isn’t good for you to dwell like this. You’ve watched enough of this footage for today. May I turn it off?”

Though his eyes remained fixed on the screen, Sherlock was not watching it anymore. “Fine.”

“Good.” The projector was turned off, and the footage vanished, letting the room be illuminated only with light from the opened door behind Mycroft. “Why don’t we sit in front of the fireplace?”

“No, I want to lie down.”

“That is certainly understandable.”

“With you.”

The room became completely quiet, again.

This time, Sherlock broke the silence. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“It might not be advisable. I… I am not a great source for comfort.” There was a chuckle, a small and forced one. “Surely you know that.”

His hands tightening anxiously on his arms, Sherlock was more certain than ever that Mycroft knew more than he let on. “I know just the opposite.”

Moving suddenly, ignoring the nervous flutters in his stomach, Sherlock vacated his seat, turning to face Mycroft in the dim light.

Mildly surprised, Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock?”

“You were good enough when we were children, weren’t you? You lied with me in my bed, or have you forgotten?”

The surprise in Mycroft’s features exited swiftly. “So you do remember that.”

“Why have you kept that secret?”

“Careful, Sherlock. Some things were meant to be buried.”

“Some things have been buried too long.”

Warily, Mycroft took a step back. “This is nonsense. As I said, you are experiencing some confusion. We’re done here.” He turned around, and exited into the hallway. “Come, you’ve been in here too long.”

Sherlock shot ahead, dashing to stand in front of Mycroft, stopping him. Furiously, Sherlock cried, “You knew!”

Mycroft stubbornly observed a painting on the wall, a piece that had been in the family’s possession for a long time, in much the same way Sherlock’s gaze had been fixed on the footage before.

So Mycroft was nervous, then. He didn’t want to look at Sherlock.

“You knew,” Sherlock said, more calmly. “You knew how I felt about you.”

In a whisper, Mycroft answered, “I suspected.”

That was it, then. Mycroft knew how Sherlock felt, and evidently, he did not return those feelings.

Sherlock turned toward the painting, too. “You were happy, I suppose, that I forgot.”

“It was for the best that you forgot. We were brothers, after all, and you were very young.”

“For what its worth, you have my apologies.”

“No, don’t be sorry for how you felt. You were confused at the time. You had endured great loss.”

Despair felt like a cold spike within Sherlock. When his memories of his caring big brother had been restored, so too had all the feelings that had been buried with them. There were other feelings also, even more unspeakable, that must have grown in him unseen as he matured into an adult. There was no point in drawing further rejection from Mycroft, though.

Mycroft lightly touched the frame of the painting in front of him. “I am the one who owes you apologies, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted dubiously. “What for?”

“You don’t know? I thought…” Mycroft’s voice trailed off for a moment as he glanced at his brother, but he shook off whatever it was he had thought. “Well, that’s fine. It’s good that you didn’t know.”

“What didn’t I know?”

“It doesn’t matter now. I can tell, though, that you won’t rest until you have the truth from me, so best to say it now, I suppose. When I was a child, Sherlock, I was also… confused.”

Sherlock dared to wonder what this might mean. A jibe at Mycroft, for admitting to being confused once in his life, surfaced in his mind, but Sherlock held it back.

“You’d better continue,” Sherlock urged, instead. “As you said, I won’t rest.”

“Very well.” There was a brief pause. “I hope I don’t need to state that this conversation stays between us.”

“I should have thought that was obvious.”

“Just so.”

Apparently in no great hurry to hurry on with his revelation, Mycroft started slowly walking down the hallway. He was quiet as they headed upstairs, to the hallway with the old family portraits, which gleamed brilliantly, having been very carefully, very recently, cleaned.

“I had similar feelings as you did, dear brother,” Mycroft said, finally, making hope burn hot inside of Sherlock. “Not the kind of feelings one typically has for a relative. Oh, nothing prurient, of course. You were very young, and I was not much more than a child myself.”

Not daring to interrupt, Sherlock waited with bated breath.

Softly, Mycroft noted, “Not quite the right feelings, all the same. I’m not sure when they first appeared. The first point I remember is wondering about the feelings developing in you. I suspected—merely suspected, you understand, I was never certain until today—that you were unusually attached to me. I was not too concerned, however, as I knew that you were an emotional child. If it was anything, I thought, it was a passing whim, nothing more than misconstrued veneration for an older sibling. I supposed that your attention would quickly latch onto something else.”

Slowly, sadly, Mycroft grimaced.

“Then it occurred to me that my own feelings about you were not quite the norm.”

Mycroft became quiet, but Sherlock could not let it end there. He was shaking. “What did you feel?”

“I cared about you very much. I cared about the family, of course. I was concerned for the wellbeing of our parents, and our sister too, even when I also had to be concerned for others around her. But you… I didn’t understand my feelings about you. I thought too much about you. I enjoyed holding you, more than I can explain. More than was proper. Enough that I was, perhaps, taking advantage of the situation, I’m sorry to admit. It wouldn’t surprise me if I had contributed to your confusion.“

Halting in front of the last portrait, Mycroft faced Sherlock again, and touched him gently on the shoulder. Stunned, Sherlock stood motionless, enjoying the physical contact while he could.

“I’d rather not say any more, Sherlock. In any case, you know enough. I am sorry. Do you accept my apology?“

Sherlock was not about to allow the conversation to end. “When did you stop feeling that way about me?”

The question was an unexpected one, judging from the consternation that knitted Mycroft’s eyebrows. He dropped his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder. “Haven’t we discussed this enough? You know about Redbeard, about Eurus, and now you know about me. I have given you an apology. Won’t that do?”

“No, it won’t. When did these feelings stop, Mycroft?”

The guilty expression on Mycroft’s face spoke loudly.

Sherlock felt so much hope that he imagined he could burst. “Your feelings for me never changed.”

“On the contrary,” his brother muttered, “they changed in a rather dramatic way. It did not escape my notice when you grew into a fine young man. You became a handsome adult. I continued to think about you too much… Sometimes I would think about how handsome you were, how strong you had become, and… Sherlock…”

Suddenly, Mycroft brought his hands to his forehead, and shook his head.

“No! I can’t say this!”

“Please, Mycroft!” When it was starting to seem possible that he could have what he wanted, Sherlock couldn’t stand to have the possibility ripped away now. “Tell me!”

“No, Sherlock, no, it’s not right…”

“Tell me!” Sherlock grasped one of Mycroft’s hands.

Mycroft stared at him with wide eyes.

“You can tell me, Mycroft,” Sherlock insisted. “Don’t you remember when we used to tell each other everything?”

“Sherlock…”

“We used to tell each other everything, didn’t we?”

Meekly, Mycroft smiled.

“I watched over you,” he whispered, “without being obtrusive. I helped you when I could, helped you get clean when I could, made sure there would always be a _list_ , so I could always save you.” Mycroft quivered a little, and Sherlock, understanding, held onto his hand firmly. “I promised that I would take care of you, and I did. Any other… considerations… that might have presented themselves, any absurd sentiments that ever transgressed what one could feel for a brother, were swiftly put away.”

With a resigned air, Mycroft stood straight again, though he didn’t try to release his hand from Sherlock’s grip. He had managed to gather himself somewhat, though the serene composure that Sherlock was accustomed to seeing in his brother was missing.

“There you have it, Sherlock. I was strangely drawn to you as a child. I thought you were right to push me away, to forget all the times I helped you feel better. I ought to have done more to help you forget, but I didn’t have the strength to push you away. I never have. Now, are we done here, Sherlock? Please tell me that we are done here.”

Filled with resolve, Sherlock touched Mycroft’s face. “You can’t push me away?”

Mycroft’s eyes gleamed in the hallway’s artificial light. “I’ve never been able to. It’s all I can do to resist pulling you closer.”

“So, if I asked for a kiss…?”

A hard edge appeared in those gleaming eyes. “Don’t play games with me, Sherlock.”

“Not a game.” Sherlock tried to communicate his feelings through his fingers, caressing the edges of his brother’s jaw, provoking a small gasp from Mycroft. “I still have feelings for you, of the sort that an ordinary brother doesn’t have for another. They were buried deep, rewritten, but they remained.” He inched closer, admiring Mycroft’s face, which looked graceful even when he was shocked. “And no, I’m not confused.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed, in disbelief.

“Did you ever want to kiss me?” Sherlock’s finger drifted closer to Mycroft’s ear, and he tremendously enjoyed the pleasant little shudder that passed through his brother. “If you ever wanted to, now’s your chance. Kiss me, Mycroft.”

Tentatively, Mycroft placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face.

“Almost there,” Sherlock murmured, thrilled. He was terribly nervous, but just as determined not to let this opportunity go to waste.

Mycroft moved nearer, tilted his head, closed his eyes, and kissed Sherlock.

Sherlock felt lighter than air. It was a fairly chaste kiss, but it was blissful. Mycroft was gentle and tender, making Sherlock feel like the most precious thing ever held between two hands.

Abruptly, the sensation ended. Mycroft pulled back, shaken. “I can’t believe I…” He was red-faced. “We can’t…”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said quickly, “We are adults now. We can do whatever we like. Nobody will stop us.”

“Maybe we should be stopped. We’re brothers. This is wrong.”

“That’s rubbish. I don’t care about pointless social rules any longer, and you don’t have to, either. We both want this. We aren’t hurting anyone.”

“How can you say that so easily? Sherlock, don’t let me kiss you again. I don’t know if I can stop myself a second time.”

“I don’t want you to stop.” Sherlock wanted another kiss. He could see, however, that Mycroft wasn’t ready to do that again. “Fine, forget about that for now. Let’s do something else, something easier. I asked you before to lie down with me. Can you do that?”

“You want to sleep together? We couldn’t possibly…”

“Just sleep next to me. That’s all I’m asking.” Sherlock craved more than that, but he could not rush Mycroft. In any case, he was spent from this emotional evening, and sleep sounded rather good.

“Just one more time,” Mycroft murmured. “That should be fine. One more time, we’ll share a bed.”

Sherlock swallowed. “One more time,” he echoed.

He stood up, and helped Mycroft to his feet. Sherlock, still holding Mycroft’s hand, guided him to Mycroft’s bedroom. It made Sherlock rather proud to lead the way, to be able to help Mycroft do what he couldn’t bring himself to do, even when they both wanted it.

Sherlock was terribly excited to share a bed with Mycroft again. If he had enough energy left, he would have been thinking of what else he might persuade Mycroft to do with him in a bed, but truly, Sherlock was exhausted. This outpouring of emotions had been trying for him, and he imagined it must have been as difficult for Mycroft, who looked tired as well. For the moment, Sherlock merely wanted to know the softness and warmth he had known as a child, when he had slept next to his big brother.

Almost as if this were a night like any other, Mycroft found his pyjamas, and gave a spare set to Sherlock for him to use. Saying little, Mycroft seemed almost shy, and it was remarkably endearing. He changed in his bedroom, while Sherlock used the bathroom. The air between them was somewhat awkward when they reconvened, neither knowing how to proceed.

Sherlock decided to proceed anyway. He made himself comfortable on Mycroft’s bed, under the blanket, and was overjoyed when he felt Mycroft climb under the blanket also, and lie down on his back, next to Sherlock.

In the dark, they rested on the bed with a little space between them at first, but Sherlock didn’t like that. He inched closer to Mycroft, until he was lying on Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft’s arm slowly came up over Sherlock. “Is this all right with you?” he asked, ever the concerned big brother.

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly, feeling drowsier each minute. “It’s as good as I remember. I did like it very much, when we shared a bed as children.” Sherlock smiled against the fabric of Mycroft’s pyjamas. “Thank you for being there, when I needed you.”

“Naturally. I’m always here for you.” Lightly, Mycroft touched Sherlock’s curly hair, a touch that Sherlock greatly appreciated. “I’ll always be there for you.”

Those familiar words, the kind of words that Sherlock had heard more than once in his life from his patient brother, brought a torrent of memories to Sherlock’s mind. The composed voice that soothed him as he tried to stop crying; the warmth of soft arms bigger than his holding him; the diverting games of deductions and chess and everything else they had played; the confusing, impossible, unacceptable feelings he had developed for his brother.

The gentle, sleepy voice of that brother interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts. “It’s all right if you change your mind tomorrow. Your mind might be clearer in the morning. You might wish you had never remembered how close we were as children.”

“I’m glad I remember, Mycroft, and I’ll still be glad in the morning. I won’t want to leave.” It occurred to Sherlock, then, that Mycroft might be the one to change his mind. “Especially if this is the last time we share a bed.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but he did stroke Sherlock’s hair affectionately.

Sherlock had no intention of letting this be the only time, not really. He would surely respect Mycroft’s wishes, but he refused to let any social taboo keep them apart. He was going to make certain that Mycroft understood they were free to do whatever they wanted to do together.

It really was incredibly comfortable to share a bed with Mycroft. Sleep was rapidly approaching. He had experienced some troubled dreams recently, but tonight, Sherlock wasn’t worried.

Lying with Mycroft like this, feeling his brother’s breaths start to even out as he approached his own slumber, Sherlock knew that his dreams would be wonderful ones.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter~ I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who was so encouraging about this story!! I really appreciate it. You are all incredibly kind and wonderful!

When Sherlock woke, he was under the blanket, cuddling with Mycroft. His head was still resting on Mycroft’s chest, and he was happy to find that not just one, but both of Mycroft’s arms had come up around him, holding him comfortably.

Mycroft appeared to be asleep. His breaths were soft and even; they formed a familiar pattern, a soothing and steady pace of breathing that had made Sherlock’s slumber more peaceful than it had been in a long time.

It was a luxury to feel Mycroft sleeping under him. Sherlock wished that neither of them were wearing pyjamas, so that he might feel the warmth and softness of his brother completely, but then, he didn’t know if he could handle the temptation of being naked in bed with Mycroft. He could hardly handle the situation as it was. Their legs were not entwined together, fortunately, so Sherlock was able to ignore his baser feelings.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, and simply relished the sensation of Mycroft’s pyjamas and the body that wore them.

After a short while, he felt a slight shifting under him, and a grunt that one might make as one wakes up.

Then, there was a slight intake of breath, as one might make when one is surprised to find one is sleeping with one’s brother.

“Everything’s fine,” Sherlock said swiftly but softly, not wishing to alarm Mycroft in any way. “Nothing’s wrong. We’re just sharing a bed, like we did as children. I remember that, now, by the way. I remember how close we were.”

“Yes.” Mycroft said, slowly. His hesitance was disconcerting, though his arms did stay around Sherlock. “So you said.”

“Isn’t this nice? We’re having a lovely time. Nothing is wrong.” Sherlock couldn’t keep himself from saying anything that would keep them in bed together. “So lovely, not at all indecent. This doesn’t have to be the last time. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, Sherlock, I don’t know what I would do if this was the last time.” Mycroft leaned his head down, into Sherlock’s hair, filling Sherlock with joy. “I have my dear little brother in my arms again. I couldn’t bare to lose him a second time.”

“That won’t happen again,” Sherlock affirmed resolutely.

“But it did happen for a reason, Sherlock. This is wrong. We can’t do this.”

Sherlock knew well the taboo that was inflicting itself upon Mycroft. That same social rule had done its work on them both as children, had compelled Sherlock to rewrite feelings and memories, and had obliged Mycroft to let him do so; Sherlock, however, didn't care at all about those rules anymore, and he refused to deny his overwhelming love for his brother ever again.

“There’s no one else here,” Sherlock said. “This is only between us. We’re not affecting anyone.”

“You’re my brother. My baby brother.” Mycroft sounded terribly distraught. “I’m supposed to protect you. Not take advantage of you.”

“That is certainly not what is happening here.” Sherlock lifted himself onto his elbows, over Mycroft’s chest, and looked down at the unusually timid face of his brother. It was a handsome, elegant face; on some level, Sherlock was certain that he had always been aware of that. “Nobody is being taken advantage of. We’re both perfectly old enough to agree to this. In fact, I’d say we’ve waited long enough.”

When Sherlock stroked Mycroft’s arm, his brother trembled under him. “God, Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped, “careful.”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“There have been so many times when I wanted you. When you touch me like that…” Mycroft swallowed. “I have to hold myself back.” His arms loosened their hold on Sherlock, and he turned away. “You might wish to vacate the bed.”

“I don’t want to leave.” Sherlock did not vacate anything; he did just the opposite, pushing himself into the bed, against Mycroft. “I want you, brother dear.” He kissed Mycroft’s neck, feeling the vibrations under his kisses as Mycroft moaned.

“Oh, Sherlock…” Helplessly, Mycroft whined, and rolled his head back onto his pillow.

Sherlock was thrilled to have such a pronounced effect on Mycroft. “You mentioned before that you watched me become a fine young man, a handsome adult—your words, not mine,” he said, against Mycroft’s neck. It seemed to Sherlock that he could kiss Mycroft on the neck forever, as long as Mycroft responded to him so gorgeously. “You’ve thought of me often, in those terms?”

“I can’t…” Mycroft’s voice broke when Sherlock started sucking gently. “Oh, Lord! This is wicked, Sherlock…”

“You can tell me,” Sherlock whispered along Mycroft’s soft skin, letting his hand slide a little under the collar of Mycroft’s pyjamas, to feel more of him. “I’m here now. I remember how much I need you, and it’s hitting me suddenly, all at once, like a fire that’s exploding within me. Oh, yes, I need my big brother.” He kissed under Mycroft’s jaw, reassured and encouraged when a hand slowly but surely rubbed his back. “I want to know that you need me, too.”

“Of course I need you. Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft whimpered, shaking under Sherlock’s attentions. “It does feel like a fire, but there’s nothing sudden about it. I didn’t bury my feelings as you did. I’ve had them for a long time, kept away, but never completely forgotten.”

Sherlock hadn’t been able to cope with his crush for his brother; he couldn’t comprehend how Mycroft had borne similar feelings for so long. Feeling guilty, Sherlock caressed Mycroft with as much tenderness as he could convey. “I’m sorry. It’s been harder for you than me.”

Mycroft answered that tenderness with soft strokes of his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t know about that, Sherlock. Many people have fantasies that are unrealistic, and they manage. In any case, I’ve always known that you loved me once, that we had been close as children. But you, you concealed it under so much rubble. You lost those good memories when you rewrote your past.”

“I always knew that you loved me,” Sherlock murmured, with another kiss to Mycroft’s neck, closer to his ear.

He felt the movement of his brother’s cheek as Mycroft smiled. “I’m very glad to hear that.”

Feeling his brother smile, hearing his words spoken in such an honest and cheerful way, made everything all right. Sherlock lifted himself a little from the bed, and looked down at Mycroft. He touched Mycroft’s handsome face, admiring the awe he saw there, wondering if that reverent gaze was really for him.

“I want to kiss you, Mycroft. A proper kiss. A deep kiss.”

“God help me,” Mycroft returned, in a hushed voice, “I want that, too.”

Sherlock leaned closer down, and met his brother’s lips with his own; the kiss started light, though it quickly escalated on both sides. Sherlock could feel that exploding fire in his body that demanded more of Mycroft, and it was easy to taste the long-lived flames in his brother, who turned his head obligingly to allow Sherlock to kiss him as deeply as he could and moaned deeply, musically.

He wanted to kiss Mycroft endlessly, for them to never pull apart so that they would always have each other. Eventually, they had to pull apart to breathe, but even then, Sherlock had to keep kissing his brother, moving back toward his ear, making Mycroft shudder as he caught his breath.

“Everything you ever thought about doing to me,” Sherlock crooned, “I want you to do it all. What was your first fantasy? Let’s do that.”

Suddenly, his big brother’s breath quickened again. “S-Sherlock, no…”

“Why not?”

“It’s not right, and not merely because we are brothers, either. The first time I had a, well, a vulgar fantasy of you… you had matured, but… you were still young."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, lightly tasting the side of Mycroft’s ear, which produced a noteworthy response in his brother. “Irrelevant. I’m old enough now, aren’t I? Tell me everything, Mycroft.”

Mycroft tilted his head back, letting Sherlock kiss wherever he liked, groaning in evident appreciation. “Oh, Sherlock, I can’t describe how good that feels… Dear brother, I remember coming home from university, and finding you grown. We weren’t close as we once were, but you were still so inquisitive, so curious about the world. You had always been beautiful in spirit, but you were nearly my height, you had luscious hair and a lovely body, and you moved with such grace and confidence… I resisted when I was at home. I at least had the decency for that.”

Exhilarated, Sherlock’s mind was already conjuring all the ways Mycroft might have seen to his own body’s demands in the past. “And when you left home?”

“When I returned to university and had my privacy, I crawled into bed and shut my eyes. Your… voice…” The gentle, restrained voice of his brother was struggling through every word. “Your voice came to my mind, and my body sank fully into its rebellion. I ached.” Abruptly, Mycroft groaned, loudly. “Oh, I ached! I ached to have you under me, on top of me, any way I could have you. I ached to be your first, to care for you as you deserved to be cared for, to spoil you so that you would need me as I needed you.”

“What did you do? Tell me, please,” Sherlock begged, desperate to know.

“I…” There was a choking sound, fraught with emotion. It was a brief but powerful sign; Mycroft was barely keeping himself from sobbing.

Worried, Sherlock held closely onto his brother. “It’s all right.”

“Sherlock, don’t you understand what I’m telling you? I touched myself, and pretended that my hand was yours! My dear little brother, who had suffered so much that he had rewritten his memories, had even rewritten me to make his life bearable. It was monstrous of me.”

“Everything’s fine, now. You don’t have to pretend.” Sherlock was certain that he didn’t have the knack for comforting others that he now knew Mycroft possessed, yet he put all his energy into it now anyway, kissing the fears out of his brother as best he could. “Would you like to have the real thing, this time?”

“We shouldn’t,” Mycroft muttered, weakly shaking his head. “We shouldn’t.”

Sherlock held Mycroft’s head still, and dared to move nearer, so that their faces were very close together, and their eyes met.

Mycroft’s eyes were wide, glistening with restrained tears, achingly vulnerable, and stunningly beautiful.

“I want to touch you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said softly.

“Please, yes, Sherlock,” was Mycroft’s breathless reply.

A song of celebration resounded through Sherlock’s being, along with a burst of determination. He was going to make this so wonderful for Mycroft that his brother would never be hesitant to be intimate with Sherlock again. Slipping his hand down between their bodies, Sherlock felt his way into Mycroft’s pyjamas, and easily found what he was feeling for.

Reflexively, Mycroft grabbed onto Sherlock’s shoulders. “Oh, S-Sherlock,” he moaned, brokenly, his tone a battle between self-discipline and fierce longing.

“You’re awfully hard,” Sherlock noted, with a little self-satisfied smirk. “Hard and wet, all because of me?”

“I… I’m sorry…”

“Oh, no, no, this is wonderful. I’m delighted. So, you like how your baby brother’s hand feels?” Sherlock’s arm moved up and down, as his hand did the same.

“Oh, God, Sherlock…” Mycroft’s voice quivered in a captivating way when he was feeling pleasure, Sherlock was delighted to discover. It was absolutely fascinating.

“Let’s try two hands!” Gleefully, Sherlock let his free hand join the busy one.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft cried out in earnest. “Oh, yes…” His eyes were fluttering, and his mouth was open in little gasps. He was perpetually the image of elegance and refinement, yet a new side to that image, a passionate and visceral aspect that was as intriguing and appealing as the rest of Mycroft’s brilliance, was taking shape before Sherlock.

How glorious it was, to feel his clever, selfless, gorgeous big brother thrusting helplessly into his hands. Sherlock was enraptured, unable to believe that either of them had ever thought this could be wrong. As he stroked his brother, he kissed him near the ear, which had affected him so strongly before.

There was another sharp gasp, and the hips jerking under Sherlock failed to keep a coherent pace. “S-Sherlock…”

“That’s good, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice had dropped precipitously, giving away how much he was enjoying his brother’s responses. “You look so good like this.” He moved back so that Mycroft could see all the desire in his soul. “I want to see what you look like when you come.”

After one more powerful, astonished gasp, and one final, impassioned cry, Mycroft did just as Sherlock wanted. Breathing his brother’s name, Mycroft reached his peak in Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock, as engrossed and attentive as he had ever been, loved every second of it.

Mycroft took some time to recover, which was perfectly fine with Sherlock. Having been profoundly affected by what he witnessed, he was experiencing an insistent urge, but he did not want to rush. He wanted to see his brother in bliss. He also enjoyed feeling his brother’s hot release on his fingers, but eventually Sherlock had to wipe his hands.

While that matter was taken care of, he observed Mycroft glancing nervously at a wall, and heard nervous mumbling to match. “That was generous of you, Sherlock.” Sheepishly, Mycroft scooted off the bed.

“You’re not leaving?”

Mycroft opened up a drawer of clothes. “I needed another pair of pyjama bottoms.” He neglected to explain why, though of course he did not have to. “I am also prepared to leave, if that would be best.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Sherlock said.

He turned away, giving Mycroft privacy while he changed pyjamas. It was a little absurd, considering what they had just done, but they were only beginning to explore how they could act with each other, and Sherlock did not wish to make Mycroft at all uncomfortable.

“This is all right with you?” Mycroft asked, while he changed. “I can stay?”

“Absolutely. I’m having a wonderful time.”

There was a touch on Sherlock’s shoulder. He turned to see his brother, in clean clothes, exhibiting a sort of dazed expression. “This is like a fantastic dream,” Mycroft said, reverently.

“Well, I’m glad I was good for you.” Sherlock beamed. “Want to come in my hands again?”

Mycroft blushed. “Goodness, Sherlock. How can you be so blasé about this? I just found satisfaction at the touch of my baby brother!”

“And you were very good. It was a spectacular performance.” Sherlock enjoyed momentously how the pinkness of Mycroft’s cheeks deepened as modesty overtook him. “You liked it, right?”

“Did I like it…?” Sitting down on the bed, next to Sherlock, Mycroft touched the spot on the bed where Sherlock had slept. “It was incredible, too much, and not enough… Do you know how it feels to be brought to completion by your sweet, handsome brother, whom you’ve known since he was a child?”

“No.” Sherlock grinned wider, trying to add some much-needed levity to this conversation. “But I’d like to, very soon.”

Mycroft remained serious. “You really don’t think there is anything wrong with this?”

“Not a bit. We both want this.”

“If that’s the case, then…” Mycroft sat up tall in front of Sherlock. “There will be nothing wrong if I give you pleasure, as you’ve done for me?”

Hearing his brother say those words was enough to leave Sherlock speechless.

“Sherlock? You said there isn’t anything wrong with this.”

Rapidly, Sherlock recovered his composure, or at least some of it. “Certainly there isn’t. Yes, I would be delighted if you did whatever you liked with me.”

Mycroft guided Sherlock to sit against pillows placed at the head of the bed. He touched Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. “Now, let’s get this off.”

The confidence Sherlock had wielded proudly before was drifting away. Sherlock helped Mycroft undress him, yet for reasons Sherlock could not fathom, bashfulness started to come over him as the garment was pulled off, so that only mere underpants clothed his obvious arousal.

“Is this starting to feel wrong yet, Sherlock?”

At the placid voice of his brother, Sherlock looked up, seeing a familiar gaze of concern.

For all that he had done to try to end the secrets between them, he couldn’t bring himself to answer Mycroft’s question honestly.

Sherlock was starting to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake. This was Mycroft, after all—the calculating brother who kept his distance, the omniscient man who controlled everything. It was strange now to be this close to him, to be wearing nothing but a loose pyjama top and underpants in the same bed as him.

He was more vulnerable before Mycroft than he had ever been, and if they continued, he was about to be even more at Mycroft’s mercy, about to feel ecstasy under that all-knowing scrutiny. That was an incredible, unbelievable thought. It went against everything he had ever known, a lifetime of difficulties between them.

Mycroft averted his eyes from all of Sherlock. “I suppose I should be grateful, that you only came to your senses after seeing to me so generously. I _should_ be grateful, but I can’t say that I am.”

“Wait!” Fervently, Sherlock reached for Mycroft’s arm. “No, nothing’s wrong. I merely… I failed to predict some of the difficulties that would arise. It’s not so easy to forget the years of distance between us. I’m not used to being vulnerable, particularly with you. Not in recent memory, at any rate.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand.”

“But that just makes me want to change things more than ever. I still want this.”

“Are you sure, Sherlock?”

Sherlock tried to answer clearly, but his words barely came out at all. “I want to be vulnerable for you. I want you to take care of me.” Upon hearing his own bold words, he was tempted to take them back. “That sounds selfish, I admit.”

“Oh, dear brother, not at all. You can trust me. I’ll take care of you.”

Mycroft helped Sherlock with his remaining garments; despite the doubting thoughts whirring through his head, Sherlock’s desire had only grown, and he was eager to undress. However, because of this terrible, bothersome attack of shyness, Sherlock found himself reticent to give Mycroft a full view.

“Part your legs for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft in wonder. Nothing in life had prepared him for the heat that rose in his chest when his subtle, elegant brother directed him in such a straightforward way. He was not at all accustomed to hearing such things from Mycroft. Was this not the overbearing sibling he had bantered with so many times?

Sympathetically, Mycroft smiled. “Still experiencing difficulties, little brother?”

With a slow breath, Sherlock steadied himself. Mycroft was the one who had always watched over him and cherished him. He could be trusted completely. What they were doing was absolutely fine. Determined to prove that to his brother, Sherlock made an effort to grin again. “Not at all. This is perfectly easy.”

Still wearing that sweet, sympathetic smile, Mycroft leaned closer. “Then part your legs for me,” he whispered. “Your big brother wants to give you pleasure, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was a grown man, an adult. He had defeated criminals and geniuses. Yet he was powerless when his brother talked to him like that. His legs parted without protest.

He didn’t have to look down to know how aroused he was. It was far more interesting to see the glint of desire that sparkled in Mycroft’s gaze.

“Well?” Sherlock said, impatiently, and a bit nervously. “Aren’t you going to do anything? Don’t disappoint me now!”

“Patience, brother mine.” In no great hurry, Mycroft affectionately hugged him. Sherlock was conflicted between his urgent physical desire and his longing to stay in that embrace forever. Fortunately, Mycroft still held him as he touched Sherlock’s chest and, at last, his hand moved lower.

Sherlock’s world shook. Moaning deeply, he parted his legs wider.

“That’s a good boy.” Mycroft stroked him more firmly. “Come now, get it up for me, all the way.”

Sherlock whimpered. He couldn’t imagine being any harder than he already was, and yet each stroke somehow made him ache more. “M-Mycroft…”

“Beautiful. Do you want more of me, little brother? How would you like me?” Murmuring against Sherlock’s shoulder, Mycroft asked, “With my mouth upon you, perhaps?”

How was Sherlock supposed to maintain any kind of control over himself, when Mycroft, the impeccable, refined, proper older brother, gave him such an offer? “Oh, please, Mycroft…”

“I’ve played this out so many times in my head, Sherlock. I’ve thought of holding you in the shower as I take you in my hand. I’ve imagined you on your knees, in front of me. I’ve gone into this lonely bed and slicked my hands so that I could imagine thrusting into you.”

Driven to ecstasy, and continually aching for more, Sherlock had to clutch the sheets to keep from crying out shamelessly. Mycroft’s fingers were careful and precise, and his confession affected Sherlock at least as much. “B-Brother…”

“I hated myself for it. I would get the urge out of my system and then forgot about it as soon as I could. I can’t go back to that, now that I’ve seen you like this. You’ve ruined me, Sherlock.”

“However you like,” Sherlock gasped.

Mycroft paused. “What?”

“You asked me how I would like you. My answer is, however you like.” Surrendering to his need, Sherlock gave in to his indomitable urge to thrust against Mycroft’s accommodating hand. “But the idea of your mouth on me is… so terribly amusing,” he managed to say.

“Amusing?” Mycroft asked, his voice hoarse. “Are you sure that is the word you want?”

“It’s… Oh, it’s close enough…”

“I think we can do better than _amusing_.” Moving lower, but staying close to Sherlock all the time, Mycroft smirked. “I suppose we’ll see.” He took Sherlock into his mouth.

No matter how much he clutched the sheets, Sherlock couldn’t contain his cries now. “Mycroft!”

With his characteristic patience, Mycroft leisurely tasted his little brother.

Writhing, Sherlock roared, “Yes, Mycroft!” He was throbbing, overwhelmed. The brother who had always cared for him, had lied with Sherlock when he was a scared, distraught child, had comforted him day after day, was caring for Sherlock as well as he ever had, in an entirely new way, and it was wonderful.

He was deeply thankful that, amazingly, Mycroft wanted him, enough to put social mores aside, enough to suck his little brother down and make Sherlock see stars.

For a moment, Mycroft stopped, and looked up at Sherlock. “How am I doing? Is this _amusing_?”

Shuddering from restraint as he tried to keep himself still, Sherlock mumbled, “It’s very good, very good.”

“Oh, then there’s still room for improvement,” Mycroft pronounced, coyly. “We can do better than _very good_.”

He swiftly returned to his task, with renewed energy, taking Sherlock for all he was worth.

“Spectacular!” Sherlock cried. “Spectacular—that’s the very word!”

Purring in a gratified, genial manner, Mycroft sucked him thoroughly.

“Ah, Brother!” Sherlock screamed with pleasure. He was euphoric, stunned by so many things: the sensation of Mycroft’s mouth around him, the force of his long-buried feelings for his brother, the knowledge that it was truly Mycroft at his hips.

Soon enough, Sherlock uttered a warning, and he finished, astonished and dazed when Mycroft drank him. As he recovered in a blissful haze, he felt the sweetness of his brother’s embrace.

Sherlock had never been so vulnerable, or so happy, except, perhaps, when he was very young, though then as now, he had been in his brother’s arms.

After some time had passed, Mycroft helped Sherlock clean up and dress in his pyjamas again—that same timid reluctance to stay in bed naked still lingered between them, though Sherlock resolved to see that reluctance worn away with time.

In any case, they lied on the bed once more. Mycroft’s arms felt soothing around him, pyjamas or no. It was true that they reminded Sherlock of arms that had held him when he was a child, though they did not seem as big now.

As a child, he had loved Mycroft’s stout shape, the soft, plump body that had held him securely and protectively. Like so many of Sherlock’s memories, that symbol of comfort had been obscured in his mind. He had teased his brother about his weight, his mind finding it easier to ridicule his brother than to deal with what it would mean to adore his brother’s body so much.

This revelation dampened Sherlock’s spirits somewhat.

Instantly, Mycroft noticed. “Was that all right, dear brother? You did enjoy yourself, didn’t you?”

“Entirely. I was only thinking about when you hugged me when we were children. I liked it when you hugged me. I liked it when you were big and soft,” Sherlock admitted, leaning into Mycroft’s chest. “I think that’s why I teased you, about your size. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand what I was doing.”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. I suspected as much, to be honest.” Mycroft truly was a clever, brilliant marvel, and obviously a forgiving one, too. “I feared you enjoyed my embraces too much. I may not have been sure what your feelings for me were exactly, but I thought it was better for you to tease me in any case. That’s a normal thing that normal brothers do, tease one another. Seems rather pointless, now. Do you mind that I’m not so… prodigious anymore?”

“This feels as good as it ever did,” Sherlock remarked, smiling.

All became calm and quiet; save for his recovered memories, Sherlock could not remember a time when silence between them had been so comfortable.

Eventually, Mycroft asked, “What are we now, Sherlock? Are we brothers? Lovers? Is it too strange, to think of us as both?”

“Let’s be both. There’s no reason to limit ourselves.” Concerned that Mycroft was about to overthink their situation again, Sherlock quickly remarked, “Now, I have some vague recollection of you mentioning a shower with me.”

“I don’t believe I… Oh. Yes, I did make some such mention.” Mycroft chuckled; it was a cheerful, reassuring sound. “I was speaking rather hypothetically, but, after we’ve both rested a bit longer, I think a shower would be perfect. I take it that you want us to shower together because you need help washing yourself? Dear little brother, I would’ve thought you’d learned to clean yourself by now.”

Though bolstered by Mycroft’s light, jovial tone, Sherlock was compelled to protest this claim. “That’s certainly not what I meant!”

“You often needed my help when we were younger. Learning to shave was particularly trying for you, I recall.”

“I hardly think that anyone who aims to use a blade to remove fine hairs from their face will succeed on their first attempt.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, Sherlock. I’ll help you with that as well, and I can assist in cleaning your clothes. The coat I saw lying on the sofa could use a bit of care. I have an extra toothbrush you can use, and I can prepare breakfast, of course.”

“Have you forgotten than I am an adult, and can take care of myself?” Sherlock asked, his words at odds with his affable tone. “When we agreed to be brothers and lovers, I was under the impression that those identities would be fairly balanced, not that you would be my big brother almost entirely.”

Kissing Sherlock on the forehead, Mycroft commented, “You really should have known better.”

Even as Sherlock groaned dramatically, he felt sweet relief as his fears were allayed. He was certain that things had changed permanently between the two of them. Sherlock had regained his sweet memories of Mycroft comforting him in childhood, and now they were going to be together in every way they wanted.

Mycroft was his thoughtful, beautiful, magnificent big brother, and Sherlock would never forget that again.

End~


End file.
